


Silk and Satin

by scriggly



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: M/M, POV Jensen Ackles, POV Second Person, non-au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-04
Updated: 2016-07-04
Packaged: 2018-07-18 18:58:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7326478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scriggly/pseuds/scriggly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Your hands in his hair leave no love bites that need a bitter alibi, no marks that can only be clawed before a long weekend, because you can't get away with bundling your beautiful boy in a scarf every time you get a little rough on his skin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Silk and Satin

**Author's Note:**

> Various unspecified settings, cons and elsewhere.
> 
> Basically just an ode to Jared's hair, in the form of an imagined look at how much it means to Jensen. 
> 
> I hope Jared gets to keep his beautiful locks forever, although I know he would be just as stunning even without them.
> 
> WARNINGS: Genevieve is mentioned.

The bastard.

***

He doesn't even do you the courtesy of waiting until you look away before he takes that vile beanie off, the bastard.

He's right here next to you in his stupid hat, telling another story to the rapt crowd. Your heart isn't fluttering too wildly, your eyes are not stuck on that pink mouth _all_ the time and you have a good third of your awareness _not_ completely tied up in him. Everything's mostly under control.

You're just sitting there drinking him in as he charms the pants off the crowd. His hands aren’t even anywhere _near_ the woollen monstrosity on his head.

Then he yanks off the hat and yanks your poor heart out of whack, harsh stage lights glinting sablebronzegolden in those cascading locks that he _knows_ you cannot take in stride.

He brushes his bangs back innocent as you please, as if you don't have two perfectly capable hands right here-

-the same hands that reduced him this very morning into a warm puddle of half-awake, purring boy in your bed, a lone curl spilling glossy and hushed onto a silken bare shoulder as he turned towards you, eyes still closed but beautiful face angled to yours for a kiss, more locks flopping and settling to hide his ear, the exquisite curve of his neck, before a startled gasp flew out of his mouth when he found himself on his back underneath you, welcomed back from sleep to pleasure under your hand and your lips and your tongue.

Now he ducks away from your eyes. Your fire has unsettled him badly enough that he unwittingly (idiotically) stokes it further, running a hand _again_ in his hair and leaving that taunting shy smile on his lips and that dazzling pink on his cheekbones, as if the picture you make isn't incriminating enough with your convulsive swallowing and your gaze adoring and hungry and gone on those luscious locks.

The bastard.

***

Those locks.

The only part of him you can muss up however you want, no holding back, ruffle and tousle and roughen up to your heart's content and have your claim (frustratingly, maddeningly) safely invisible to the entire world.

Your hands in his hair leave no love bites that need a bitter alibi, no marks that can only be clawed before a long weekend, because you can't get away with bundling your beautiful boy in a scarf every time you get a little rough on his skin.

Those locks need no restraint on your part, none, never.

If you're forced to keep your teeth shielded from his delicious skin and your hand as lax as you can bear around his neck as you pant one last sloppy kiss below his ear, you can still fist your fingers in those soft, soft curls as hard as you want, as rough as he needs, tug and pet and twist until his hair looks as wrecked as you are.

And then you can go back out into the world with your boy, and watch the silk piled on his head flaunt your secret and keep it.

***

He doesn't even do you the courtesy of waiting until you're looking _at_ him before he takes that vile beanie off, the bastard.

The gorgeous, gorgeous bastard.

You glance away for all of two seconds. And when you turn back to him your breath is knocked out of you by all that silk, tumbling and gleaming and swaying.

It's premeditated murder on your sanity, this nymph boy who tosses his hair like it's _nothing,_ like it doesn't effortlessly spike your blood white hot with lust.

And he's playing with fire, your beautiful boy.

Because there are people here. He's sitting on a stage with people here-

-not waiting for you in bed like he was last night, when he tossed his hair and leaned back against the pillows and nudged the blankets off with one graceful foot, eyes dark and red lips parted and skin a moonlit offering, shredding your brain as you stumbled towards him and fisted a hand in his hair, frantic for absolution in his mouth, between his thighs. Slippery silk between your fingers and wet silk on your tongue and molten silk around your cock.

Now he tosses his hair _again_ , leans down to brush those locks against your bicep in a dangerous, dangerous game. Lets the goofy smile slip off his lips for one moment, lets the smolder cloud the beautiful bluegreenhazel of those eyes as silken strands of caramel and dark toffee and melted chocolate satin slip down slowly to half-hide one eye, and it almost ends you right there.

The only face you can cobble together is too serious, almost angry, but it's the best you can do, heart undone and blood on fire and legs splayed wide in dizzying want. He holds your gaze, his face as soft and longing and achingly open as it was last night, tipped up from between your thighs, eyes destroyed and worshipful and gone on you from beneath a tousled silken halo smeared with your precome.

The moment breaks as pink smudges his cheekbones again and he ducks away again, goofy laugh back in full force, no bad pun or non-sequitur for once to distract the crowd with.

If the fevered hunger in your eyes unravels him, it serves him right for unleashing those lush curls on you when you're only human.

The bastard.

***

He surrenders his hair to professional hands and sinks back in his chair, as supple and lithe as you are insatiable, all liquid, willowy lines and good-natured patience and hair so ridiculously dazzling it has to be made _less_ gorgeous for filming.

He's busy making quick work of the bag of candy you plonked in his lap, and you try to focus on your cell phone and not on the pink tongue that keeps darting out to swipe at sugar-streaked lips. You tear your eyes away and make little bets with yourself while the hands in his hair try to coax the rich locks flat, to dim the luster of bronze and coffee and caramel.

You win most of your little bets.

No professional hands can really do more than artfully tousle it a little and declare your boy ready, curls still shiny and whisper-soft and fluttering dusk dark molten gold with the slightest sway of his head.

It's up to camera and lighting tricks now to deceive and wilt his luxuriant hair, turn it from dazzling to merely beautiful.

He folds himself silkily out of his chair and turns towards you, a gem of a smile just for you. Bluegreenhazel eyes register the quiver in your lips, the wide vee of your legs. A darkened gaze on yours under a fringe of dark molasses dipping slowly down, turning you drugged and slow and stupid-

-just like you were this morning, when he stopped you at the door, hair sleep-mussed and all delicious seven feet of him sleep-warm and bare and yours for the taking, opened your jeans and tilted your world as you tumbled him down to the floor and crawled over him, fully dressed but for the animal need free between your legs smearing a trail up his calf, knee, the inside of his thigh, all that lush silk on his head rippling with every feverish slam as you drank out of his mouth and fell apart inside him and let him patch you back together.

Now you somehow make your legs work, and you stand up.

Outside the makeup trailer, the breeze plays with his hair and you follow him in a haze. Behind your closed door he sinks to his knees, and the drag of your hand wrecks the hairstylist's work and – ten minutes later – when you arrive late where everyone's waiting for you, he looks ten times as beautiful.

***

Only hairstylists get to touch his hair now.

She's stopped. No more manbuns, ponytails, anything as props for the charade.

You wish you could have handled it better. You wish you hadn't let it get so ugly with the mother of your boys.

But she buried her fingers in those locks-

_-(still littered with your fingerprints and smudged from your lips and warm from your desperate inhale only a few minutes before they had to sell their act)-_

-and you flipped.

You may have to stomach the sight of her hands swallowed in his and her girlishness tucked against his silken strength, bow your head and dredge up a convincing fond smile while you listen to your memories with him twisted and trotted out under her name-

You may have to gag on all that, but those locks stay off-limits.

She doesn't get to touch those locks.

You still spend a few days wishing you'd handled it better.

Until he's on a continent and you're on another and you're out of your mind with heartache, every cell in your body screaming at you to jump on the first flight back home, rules and circus show and future be damned.

When you can finally gather him in your arms and tangle your fingers into his precious hair and he breathes calm and soft against your neck, an idea glimmers in your head.

So you wait for the next big time you're in public, and you don't breathe a word of your plan to him.

***

When there are enough cameras pointed at him, precious and mid-ramble and hidden under his security blanket, you walk right up and you shock the breath out of his lovely mouth as you yank the ugly beanie off.

It's as bold a fuck you as you can afford to give the world. Your fingers slide proprietary and sure into those gorgeous locks, card through them and mess them up the way you and only you know how. The only way that's right.

You're here, so he no longer needs what feeble security he can eke out of an ugly hat. Not here, not with his back almost in the protective circle of your arms, your fingers grazing his scalp and the shell of his ear and the nape of his neck, the best security blanket in the world for him.

His hands fall open onto the table, lax and content and _safe_.

Safe in your arms, safe under the pads of your fingers, safe safe _safe_ just like he should always be.

And just like that it dawns on you, clear as day and beyond any doubt: You are done giving in on this.

He is never going to stand alone again, without you again. And anyone who doesn't like this can look the other way or make up yet another shaky explanation. This is how it's going to be from now on.

***

He won't even _glance_ your way, the bastard.

He can throw innuendos with the best of them, face straight, goofy smile easy on his lips, beanie forgotten near his chair, his hair safe from the ugly hat and your heartstrings as safe as they can get from any sudden silken attacks.

But the moment you Swayze up your hips, thrust a fake hula hoop around, the moment you let a leer color your eyes and your smirk (only-half jokingly on him) as you play up the hysterical screams and make sure the crowd gets its money's worth, your boy dissolves into flustered laughter, so helplessly, wildly flustered his fingers all but tear out those silken locks.

Exquisite. Your beautiful boy is exquisite bewildered in lust.

A schoolboy blush splotches his cheekbones, and your brain stutters.

Because he didn't blush when you trapped him on the couch earlier this afternoon and tugged the blue elastic down to unwrap him and watch him spring free. He didn't blush as he watched you watch him lengthen and curve and stiffen in your hand, a hair's breadth from your lips. Didn't blush when you panted at the clear dribble suspended in the air between his slit and your tongue, and didn't blush when you manhandled his legs up and out of the way and gazed your fill and played with him and sank your fingers inside him-

Now he blushes like a virgin, beautiful eyes desperately turned away from yours. Licks his lips and leaves a nervous, shiny trail that dries up your mouth and squeezes your heart and thickens your cock.

So possessive, your boy. So dizzyingly, jealously possessive of you.

One suggestive joke out of your mouth, one lewd swing of your hips as you invite the crowd to think they're ogling you and he's a squirming mess, looking everywhere but your way and trying his damndest to contain himself, chaos of soft, soft hair wrecked from the feverish drag of his fingers.

It's only fair.

If you turn the tables on him for a change, your beautiful boy who melts into mush behind closed doors the instant you start giving him a show but sees no problem dazzling you with those locks in public, the bastard, it's only fair.

Gorgeous, gorgeous bastard.

***

You can't stop joking about too long hair and scissors and braids. Lovesick, every mention of his hair a secret love song to the silk he keeps flaying you open with.

Doubled over the chair he's straddling in laughter, layer after silken layer spilling upside down and tugging your poor battered heartstrings unraveled in savage tenderness.

Lost in thought, soft bangs fallen over smoky eyes.

Asleep in the car, liquid and ethereal and tucked safely in the cocoon of your arm over his headrest, making you ache in a million confused directions at once.

(Ache to pet those locks. Fist your fingers in them. Fuss over him gently. Bend him over in rough abandon. Spoil him rotten. Make him beg for your hands in those locks and your flayed need in his mouth.)

Those locks. Soaked full of you.

Smudged with the hot worship in your lips and the fever in your fingers. Twisted as you crawl over him, out of your mind with need. Smoothed gently out of dark, dazed eyes right after.

The last thing you're aware of as you fall asleep, your nose or your lips or your fingers always buried in them. The first thing you reach for in the morning, before you're even half-awake.

The first thing your eyes fell on when you first met. Above coquettish eyes and a shy smile, vulnerable, baby boy locks of silk bouncing with his artless, little-boy amble and jostling awake a monster of crazed, _crazed_ protectiveness you had no idea had been inside you.

Those soft, soft locks.

Spilling through your heart, swirling up and down and around your brain, gossamer-soft and dreamlike and melting from hue to hue, tickling your nose and glowing with your claim and your devotion and your eternal love, you and only you.

***

It's time to head back out. His fingers twitch, reach for the vile hat.

One day, you promise yourself, he won't need it anymore.

One day soon.

You'll be able to wind your fingers in his hair whenever he needs it, whenever you want to, anywhere. Pour your love into those liquid layers of silk and satin for all to see.

And your poor heart won't be punched out of your chest when dazzling locks are unleashed by ugly hats.

One day soon.

You kiss the silent promise into your boy's hair right before you both walk out, right before he slips his hat on again, tendrils of silk already peeking out and taunting you. Again.

The bastard.

Your gorgeous, precious bastard.

***


End file.
